The Last Dessert Chef

The sky was washed in gentle gray, the kind that promised neither storm nor sun. Avril stepped outside with a basket tucked neatly against his hip, the faint warmth of freshly baked milk bread still lingering beneath the cloth cover. The wind carried the scent with it—a warm blend of butter and sugar, the kind of smell that drew memories from the depths of someone's bones, even if they didn't know what it reminded them of.

Avril adjusted his scarf, glanced toward the thatch-roof house behind him, and set off.

Today wasn't about popularity or algorithms. It was about people. Neighbors. Starting something from the dirt up—again.

The first home sat at the corner of the gravel path. A squat cement structure surrounded by a tired wire fence and flowerpots full of dry soil. The door creaked open before he could knock, revealing an older woman with a pinched expression and short, graying hair tucked behind her ears.

Her eyes darted to the basket, then to his face.

"Morning," Avril offered, his tone even and respectful. "I'm new here. Name's Avril—I bake. This is a free sample of milk bread I made this morning."

She squinted, unconvinced. "It's not... some new nutrient bar thing, is it?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "Just flour, milk, sugar. All real. I'm planning to open a bakery just down the road, and I'd like to get a sense of what people here enjoy."

Her gaze stayed hard, but her hand reached for the sample anyway. She peeled back the wrap slowly, sniffed once, and paused.

"…Smells like something real," she muttered, brows pinching slightly. "Haven't smelled that in my kitchen since… hell, I don't know when."

She didn't thank him. Didn't smile.

But she took the bread and closed the door.

That was enough.

The second house had peeling green paint and a crooked antenna on the roof. A toddler's wailing echoed from within. When the door opened, a woman stood there—slim, pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion, and a crying baby on her hip.

"I'm not buying anything," she said, voice sharp with fatigue.

"I'm not selling yet," Avril answered, gently holding out the bread. "Just a sample. I bake. Hoping to open a place nearby."

She glanced at the basket like it might bite her.

Then something shifted. The baby stopped crying.

He sniffed the air with a curious twitch of his nose.

Intrigued, the mother unwrapped the bread, and the scent of soft milk, melted butter, and sugar wafted out. The baby reached out and grabbed a chunk before she could react.

He bit into it—and chewed quietly. Then again.

Her eyes widened.

"He didn't spit it out…"

"He likes bread?" Avril asked.

She shook her head slowly. "He doesn't eat anything lately. We tried three nutrient brands last week. He threw up all of them."

"It's just bread," Avril said softly. "Simple ingredients. It's easy on the stomach."

Her voice trembled slightly. "We used to have something like this, back in the city... before the recalls. Before they stopped making it."

Avril only smiled. "I hope it brings him comfort."

She blinked back tears, nodded, and whispered, "Thank you."

He moved from house to house, a rhythm forming in his steps.

One home had a low-humming generator and a man in stained overalls working on a broken water pump. He wiped his hands on his shirt, took a sample without a word, bit into it, and chewed in silence.

Then he muttered, "Haven't tasted anything that didn't come from a tube in five years."

At the next place, an old man with shaking hands peered out from behind his curtains. When Avril explained, he slowly shuffled outside. He didn't ask questions—just unwrapped the bread, smelled it, and took a careful bite.

His eyes closed.

"It's soft," he murmured. "Doesn't hurt my jaw."

"You like it?"

"…It's kind. That's what it is."

Further down the road, a boy peeked through the slats of a low fence. Wide-eyed, curious. His father, standing tall and stiff, had arms crossed over his chest.

"No handouts," the man said flatly.

"It's a sample," Avril responded calmly. "I'm opening a bakery soon. Just want people to try it."

The boy tugged at his father's sleeve. "Papa, can I?"

The man hesitated, then took the parcel. The boy snatched half a piece and bit down.

His face lit up.

"It's warm!" he said, mouth full. "And it doesn't taste weird!"

The father tried a bite, jaw working slowly. He didn't smile—but his eyebrows lifted just slightly.

"Not bad. Not synthetic."

Avril inclined his head. "Only real ingredients."

The man gave a gruff nod. "You'll be open soon?"

"If there's interest."

"I'll be watching."

---

Near the old solar panels, a cluster of teenagers leaned on rusted pipes, joking and tossing rocks at an abandoned drone shell. When Avril approached, they all looked him up and down like he was part of a school fundraiser.

"What's in the basket, Mister?"

"Milk bread," Avril answered. "Try it."

One took it, unwrapped it like it was a prank, and popped a piece in his mouth. He chewed, then blinked.

"…Whoa."

"Dude, what is that?" one of the others said, grabbing a piece.

"It's like… cozy. You know? Like lying on warm blankets."

"You're being dramatic," another snorted, but she still reached for a piece.

They kept eating.

They didn't thank him.

But they didn't mock him, either.

At the last corner shop—a dusty place with faded signage and shelves half-stocked—he placed a sample on the counter.

The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with wiry gray hair, didn't say a word. Just gave him a tired but respectful nod before tucking the parcel beside the register.

When he left, he saw her unwrapping it quietly.

By the time Avril returned home, the sun had dipped into soft orange. His arms were empty, and his steps heavier. But his chest was light.

Orange was perched on the windowsill as always, tail flicking lazily like he'd been monitoring the entire journey.

"I'm back," Avril murmured, setting the empty basket on the bench. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around the quiet kitchen.

He walked to the far wall, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote on the board:

"Milk Bread Trials: 16 houses. 9 interested. 2 asked when the shop opens."

He stared at the numbers a moment, lips pressing together.

Not a crowd.

But a beginning.

He rolled up his sleeves again, fingers brushing against the flour jar as he mentally inventoried what he had left.

"Tomorrow… maybe cinnamon rolls," he mused. "Or garlic knots. Something savory next."

Orange gave a soft meow, then promptly fell asleep.